


Hi Dad, this is my boyfriend - you remember - the one you arrested?

by RampantAnnarchy (combustspontaneously)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, M/M, and enjolras gets arrested often, and javert is the town sheriff, do you see where this is going, grantaire is javerts foster son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 22:06:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2557406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/combustspontaneously/pseuds/RampantAnnarchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, it turns out Grantaire has a thing for socialist teenage delinquents.</p><p>His dad's not going to be happy about this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hi Dad, this is my boyfriend - you remember - the one you arrested?

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in an attempt to get over my writer's block so I could get back to my nanowrimo project, and I think it worked??  
> Anyway. Based off of this tumblr post:  
> http://connorwvalsh.tumblr.com/post/101587161669/the-law-is-notmocked-okay-so-i-know-there-are

Truth be told, Grantaire doesn’t visit the police station just to bring his foster father lunch, though that is the excuse he gives for visiting on fine summer days, when they both know he’d rather be in the skate park with Bahorel or browsing through seedy bookstores with Jehan. The real reason lies with the people Javert brings in in cuffs. Grantaire likes to sit outside the holding cells, sitting cross-legged right outside the bars with a pencil in his hands and a sketchbook in his lap.

He likes talking to them, likes their stories, and they like him too. Ginger and Rose (both caught on frequent charges of prostitution) blow kisses and tell him about all the guys who try to pick them up. Jimmy, scratching at his patchy goatee, regales him with stories of the good ol’ days, when robbing banks was an art. _Now_ , he says every time Grantaire sees him, _now just about anyone can do it_. He draws them all, fills sketchbooks with snaggle-toothed criminals and rouged hookers. When Javert finds them, piled up in a heap beside his desk, he just shakes his head and buys him better charcoal.

Increasingly, however, the sketchbooks are being filled up with one familiar face. Grantaire perfects his knowledge of drawing curled hair and flashing eyes, arguing happily all the while.

His name is Enjolras and he lives in the good part of town.

It’s a surprise; people from the West side are almost unheard of here, except to file reports of stolen goods or whatever, but even then they mostly just call in.

This Enjolras, with his hard jawline and halo of curls, starts coming in more frequently than Rose and Ginger, and Grantaire finds himself hoping to see his face every time he rounds the corner to the cells. He gets off every time with a warning or some community service; likely because of his father’s influence and his family’s affluence.

He’s a socialist, Grantaire learns to his utter delight, and the most idealistic bastard he has ever met. Javert hates him.

The constable complains of him bitterly over microwaved dinner, Grantaire’s foster father stabbing angrily at limp vegetables as he bemoans the gang of rabble rousers that have taken over the West side, led by the leader in red.

Grantaire finds out they have friends in common, leaning against the bars as he colors in a sketch, and soon enough he finds Bahorel behind the bars too. Grantaire raises an eyebrow and a corner of his mouth when he sees him walking in in front of one of the newer deputies, shiny cuffs circling his wrists (Grantaire knows he’s abstaining from picking his way out out of respect for Grantaire’s dad), and stifles a laugh as Bahorel winks at him on his way past. Javert hangs his head in his hands, muttering muffled obscenities.

He refuses their invitations to attend their meetings out of respect for his foster father’s blood pressure, but ends up meeting them all anyway. Not many of them end up behind bars, but enough do that it piques his interest. He goes to the skate park to meet Bahorel one day, only to find all of them waiting there for him. Introductions go smoothly and he finds quickly that he loves all of them. They’re a likable lot, and all disgustingly attractive – Enjolras most so.

Not all of them skate, some of them deigning to dangle their legs on the edge of the bowl instead. Courfeyrac teaches him a few simple tricks (Grantaire really only skates to get from place to place; Javert refuses him a driver’s license until he’s 18), and even Combeferre (the most serious of them all, Grantaire thinks) does a few ollies on Courf’s board. Even Jehan and Joly, who refuses to get on the board but smiles like he’s having the time of his life anyway, get a bit into it, shouting out encouragement from the edge and cheering when someone does anything particularly impressive. All but Enjolras, it seems.

He sits a little to the side of the others, talking quietly with Courfeyrac and Combeferre whenever they wander over close enough to exchange words. For the most part he just watches – watches Grantaire, it seems, and Grantaire repays the favor in kind. He’s wearing a Henley that looks like it costs as much as Grantaire’s whole paint-splattered closet, with the sleeves pushed up, leaning back on his palms with his head tilted towards the sky. The sun catches his hair, glints off the blue in his eyes, and illuminates the lovely skin of his throat when he leans his head far back enough.

He’s the most beautiful thing Grantaire has ever seen, and he doesn’t even stir when Grantaire skates up, coming to an abrupt stop beside him.

He plops down beside him, sitting cross-legged and facing him. Enjolras opens his eyes languidly, rolling them to the side to look at Grantaire. The corners of his mouth twitch and he smiles, slow and luxurious.

It occurs to Grantaire then, that this is the first time he’s seen Enjolras without the bars between them. He barely resists the urge to reach out and stroke the planes of his cheekbones, the pale skin of his neck, just to check that he’s there, really _there_.

“Hi,” he manages after a pause too long to be anything but revealing.

Enjolras grins, toothy and wolfish, and Grantaire’s heart skips a beat.

Xx

Grantaire stops going to the clink so often after that, and if Javert notices he only approaches it in terms of passive aggressive questions over dinner and narrowed eyes. Grantaire’s too busy floating to notice.

It opens up a lot of time, Grantaire realizes, not going to the station so often. He still stops in every once and a while, brings his dad coffee and food to make sure he’s eating whenever he’s running long shifts. When he’s not around Fantine takes up the task anyway, but he still likes to know that his father’s not living off of McDonald’s fries and coffee fumes from the station’s shitty pot. But even if he does this a couple times a week, he doesn’t stay very long or visit the holding cells as often, and when he does, he doesn’t bring his sketchbook. They’re mostly filled with sketches of his new friends anyway – or more accurately, Enjolras and occasionally the others.

They hang out a lot more often now, Grantaire even sitting in a few of the meetings. He still ends up arguing with Enjolras, tearing apart his arguments and feeling that twist of pleasure as he watches Enjolras build them back up even stronger than before. In the end though, they’re always both smiling, and that’s what matters most.

Even when he doesn’t go to the meetings, Grantaire joins them afterwards in the park or the Musain, happy to just be there. After a while, Enjolras starts coming to sit next to him while they talk or goof around, pressed firmly against his side. Grantaire nearly dies when Enjolras slips his palm into his own one day, casually, as if it were only natural. Which, in a way, it is.

They spend a lot of time together after that, with and without the others. Enjolras shows up randomly outside his school one random day, a week after school started and the meetings became less frequent. They haven’t seen each other in a while. He stands at the bottom of the stairs, looking like a Greek god in his private school uniform. It’s just neatly pressed slacks and a loosened tie hanging over a white button-up, but Grantaire fucking dies.

He look like every other St. Ignacio’s student from the West side, except for the fact that his regulation blazer has a distinctly red tint to it, and there are buttons pinned on his messenger bag with radically left-winged political slogans on them. There are people gawking, so Grantaire self-consciously adjusts his paint-splattered t-shirt and hurries down the steps to him.

“What’re you doing here?” Grantaire asks, ruffling his messy hair in a way he hopes makes it look less of a mess than he knows it is. He can hear whispers behind them, feel the stares on his back of who is _he,_ and what is he doing with _him_ , but if Enjolras does he steadily ignores it.

“I came to pick you up,” he says slowly, as if it were obvious.

“Pick me up?” Grantaire echoes, and looks behind him at the gathering crowd before dragging Enjolras by the hand down the street. Enjolras looks rather amused at this, but doesn’t drop his hand when they stop; it shouldn’t make Grantaire feel as happy as it does. “What do you mean pick me up?” Grantaire asks when they’ve come to a stop in front of a relatively neutral location across the street from the park.

Enjolras rolls his eyes exasperatedly, but there’s a hint of a grin on his lips. “For our date, Grantaire,” he says, and lifts a picnic basket that had totally escaped Grantaire’s notice until now.

Grantaire makes an embarrassingly pained noise. “Our… date?”

Enjolras grins then, blindingly bright, and tugs his hand until they’re walking across the street. “Yes, idiot. Our date.”

And just like that they’re dating – officially dating. Enjolras shows up every so often outside Grantaire’s window or school and takes him to movies and coffee shops and kisses him breathless. The others hoot and holler and wink suggestively for the first couple weeks anytime they do anything relatively romantic in front of them, and it’s a great relief when Marius stumbles through the doors into one of their meetings with a beautiful blonde in tow and introduces her as the love of his life. It doesn’t stop Combeferre and Courfeyrac from cornering him after a meeting one day and threatening him with bodily harm if he hurts him – not that it’s possible, what with Grantaire’s endless love for him and the fact that he has a cop for a dad – and Eponine pressing Enjolras up against a wall with an all too real threat on her lips.

The last person to find out, it seems, is Javert, and when he does…

Let’s just say Grantaire really wishes film and photography were his preferred art mediums, because wow, was that an awkward dinner he would’ve loved to save for prosperity.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! PS: you can find me on tumblr with the url connorwvalsh c:


End file.
